


Square Peg

by Capella (Caprina)



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 11:08:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caprina/pseuds/Capella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dead mother, the absent father, the stern, elderly grandparents and the toy box full of improving books. It's no surprise that he's turned out to be a bit of a square peg.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Square Peg

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2006 for the DS Flashfiction 'School Days' challenge.
> 
> Thanks to Elfscribe, as always.

**1978**

Benton Fraser showed up at lunchtime today, barely ten minutes after the break started. He hesitated at the door like he always does when he realises I'm in the room, but I looked up from my stack of books in time to wave him in and say hello before he could start apologising.

"Mrs. Burnaby," he gave me that funny little half-smile and gestured towards the long bookcase. "I wondered if I might just..? I wouldn't want to disturb you."

"You know you're not disturbing me, Ben," I said. "Give me a shout if you need any help."

He settled himself at a table near the back with a couple of textbooks and a pile of paper, and I went back to my marking. It was a comfortable sort of silence, as usual.

When Benton first asked if he could study in my room during his free time, I assumed he was thinking of university. Lord knows, of all my students he was the least in need of extra help. But when I asked him which branch of science he was hoping to pursue, he looked confused. 

"Oh no, Ma'am," he said, flushing slightly, "it's not... you see, I intend to join the RCMP when I leave school."

I don't suppose I hid my surprise very well. 

"Of course, much of police work is applied science of one sort or another," he added hopefully, and I nodded. I hardly knew the boy, and it wasn't for me to question his career choice.

Before long, Benton was spending his breaks in my room, three or four days out of five. After a few weeks he turned up without his books and asked if I needed any help. His eagerness was verging on anxiety, so I passed him a pile of posters and a staple gun and pointed him towards a corkboard. It seemed to calm him down. Since then, it's become a regular thing when he doesn't have work to do. He looks after the displays, tests and fixes bits of equipment, and runs the occasional errand. I doubt that the department has ever looked so neat. And the more time he spends there, the more I worry about him.

Any teacher knows that a student like Benton is a gift. He excels in all his subjects, so of course I'm flattered that he shows a particular interest in mine. It just shouldn't be at the expense of everything else. I wish I could picture him joking with his classmates, shooting hoops, sharing secrets or arguing a point that has nothing to do with schoolwork, but I know it doesn't happen. I've a feeling I'm the closest thing he has to a friend here, and all we ever talk about is science. 

Jon laughed when I told him about Benton, though not unkindly. "Another one with a crush on you, Carol? The poor kids don't stand a chance."

It's the obvious assumption, and I know he won't be the only one to make it - that's why the door stays open during our lunchtimes and I stay up behind my desk - but it's way off the mark. I've seen enough crushes to recognise the signs, and I'd never have allowed it to go this far. As it is, I'm quite certain that Benton doesn't come to my room to spend time with me. He's there because he needs a safe place, and for some reason, my room is it. 

Perhaps it's because we're both relative newcomers: Benton from some godforsaken place even further north, me up from Edmonton for the sake of Jon's work, and lucky to find a job outside Alberta. I get on fine with my new colleagues and eat my lunch in the staffroom at least twice a week; but I find it hard to switch off during the school day, and if I can get through my work here instead of taking it home in the evening, it's a bonus. That explains what I'm doing up behind the big desk. What I can't figure out is what Benton's hiding from.

Teenagers can be cruel, as everyone knows, but I've watched how the others treat Benton and I don't think it's that. They're pleasant enough with him; there's no obvious teasing, and if there's a distance there it's one he seems to project around himself. He's such a good looking boy, and charming in a quaint sort of way, so it's no secret that half the girls in the school would love to get closer to him, and no doubt a few of the boys, too. I wondered if that was the problem for a while. Growing up gay must be difficult at the best of times, but in a small community like this one, it would be a nightmare. I'm enough of a scientist to need some evidence in support of my theories, though, so I've long since abandoned that line of thinking.

I remember Stevie Nicholls, a big hearty lad from Benton's class, asking me to give him some extra time on an assignment. 

"I can't do it tonight," he said, "and I don't suppose the others will, either. We're all going out to the dance."

"All of you?" I demanded. "Is Benton going with you?"

He met my gaze squarely. "We asked him, more than once, but he said no. He always does."

I told him he could have a couple of extra days, and that he might pass the news on to his friends. Before he hurried off to lunch I added, "And do me a favour, Stevie. Keep on asking, will you?"

He looked back at me with fifty year old eyes. "Yeah, we will. But it won't make any difference." 

I've talked to the other staff about Benton, of course. Most of them are happy to accept that he's 'just a loner,' which makes me wonder how closely they're looking. Only Jeff MacDonald, the English teacher, seems to share my concern.

"You should ask Benton to show you his essay on literary influences," he told me. "It's all in there. The dead mother, the absent father, the stern, elderly grandparents and the toy box full of improving books. It's no surprise that he's turned out to be a bit of a square peg." 

I tried to talk to Benton, too, to encourage him to open up, but I soon found out that it's a waste of time. He'll answer politely enough without really saying anything, and steer the conversation back to something neutral in a clever sentence or two. He doesn't let his discomfort show on his face; only the set of his shoulders gives it away.

Once I pushed it too far by saying straight out, "You know, I worry about you, Ben. I appreciate all your hard work, but shouldn't you be out there having fun sometimes?" 

He let me see it for a moment then, the hurt in his eyes. "But this is fun," he said, waving a hand across the books in front of him. "I really enjoy it. I would have thought that you of all people would -"

"Of course I understand," I said quickly, realising my mistake, "I suppose I'm just not used to this sort of dedication in my students. It's still a bit of a shock." 

I managed to get a half-hearted smile out of him, which was hardly reassuring. When he showed up at my door the next day, I was ridiculously relieved. Since then I've been more careful with my words.

I watched Benton today, totally absorbed in his work. He interacts with a book like no other student I've seen. Though he reads with complete concentration, his face makes little movements as if he were listening to someone talk, and occasionally he'll mutter a querying "Hmm?" or a satisfied "Ah." Then he'll catch his lower lip with his teeth while he adds to his notes in that precise, curving script. 

He glanced up at one point and caught me staring. I smiled and dropped my eyes to my own work, but looked back at him when he cleared his throat. 

"Ah, Mrs. Burnaby, may I ask you something?"

His tone, like his eyes, seemed particularly serious, and for a moment I thought that this might actually be it. 

"Of course you may." I leaned forward and tried not to sound too eager.

Benton said, "In a double slit interference pattern, the waves from both sources are reaching the screen even at the dark fringes, aren't they? So where does the energy go?"

I picked up a piece of chalk. "Well, you can consider it in terms of distribution of the total energy, remembering that energy is proportional to the square of the amplitude of the wave," I said, and turned to the board, hiding my grin at my own foolishness. 

I guess Jon was right when he said, "Let it go, Carol, you can't change the boy, and you shouldn't even be trying. Just let him be what he is." 

I'm sure that Benton needs help of some sort, but he's obviously not going to get it from me. All I can do is offer him acceptance and a safe place. It looks as though that will have to be enough. 

 

********************

 

**1998**

Jon found the article in one of the local papers. It's years since we moved back down south, but he still gets them all delivered, along with the nationals and the international magazines. He says it's for his work, but I call it an addiction. Not that I’m complaining; he keeps me in mind while he's skimming, and my Science in the News board has always been the best in town.

It was Jon who kept us up to date four years ago, too, when the East Bay Power scandal broke. I was surprised then that there wasn’t more news about Benton himself, aside from the odd bald statement that he would be staying in Chicago, working at the embassy there. You'd have thought it would be a journalist's dream: the brave Mountie tracking his father's killers thousands of miles across international borders, uncovering a huge corporate crime in the process. The lack of coverage was frustrating. How could somebody like Benton be happy in Chicago? I tried to imagine a lovely American woman, some nice romantic reason for him to want to stay. 

Jon has the instinct for a good conspiracy, and he dismissed my hopes in an instant. "A scandal of that magnitude dirties everyone in sight," he said. "There'll be all sorts of muck they're covering up, and they'll want your Benton well out of the way." I could only wish I didn't believe him. If he hadn't been so busy, with one book at the editor's and a contract for another two, I might have persuaded him to dig a bit deeper.

This time, of course, it's very different. The Russian sub's been all over the news, and everyone involved in the capture is some kind of hero. There's a smart-looking Mountie woman fronting the press conferences and getting her picture in all the papers, but Benton's name is there too. And with this article, the human interest number from page seven of a local rag, there's even a photo.

**_Muldoon Case Hero Says: It's Time to Come Home_** , the headline reads.

_Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police has had enough of expatriate life. After four action-packed years in Chicago, he's heading North to stay._

There are a couple of paragraphs about the Muldoon case, nothing we don't already know, emphasising the tragic murder of Benton's mother when he was only six. The interviewer probably tried to get Benton to talk about that part, but all he's recorded as saying is, "I'm happy that justice has been done at last."

The final couple of paragraphs are the ones that interest me.

_Constable Fraser, 38, won’t be a constable for much longer. When he takes up his new post in Inuvik in September, he’ll be answering to the title of Corporal. The locals are eagerly awaiting his arrival. Community activist Florence Mead said yesterday, "Benton Fraser is a national hero. The whole town is thrilled that he's coming here." But the brave Mountie is finding time for a little relaxation first - as far from Chicago as he can get._

_**Franklin’s Hand** _

_Constable Fraser and his American colleague, Detective Ray Kowalski of the Chicago police department, plan to travel north in search of the remains of Sir John Franklin’s 1845 Arctic expedition. They'll be doing it in traditional style, with dogs and tents and no backup team. Detective Kowalski says he's looking forward to a few months out on the ice. "Me and Fraser, we've been working hard these last couple of years, bringing the bad guys down," he told the Gazette. "The Muldoon bust was just the cherry on top, the icing on the cake. It's time we took a break from law enforcement and had some fun, so we’re off to look for Franklin’s hand, the reaching out one."_

Fun and Fraser in the same paragraph? I blink and read it again, then I go back to the photo and study it a bit more carefully.

There's Benton in his full red uniform, looking very much like his teenage self, though rather more solid. His colleague - Benton uses the word partner in the interview - is standing next to him: a tall, wiry man in jeans, with messy blond hair and an engaging grin. He's not quite looking at the camera, but turning slightly towards Benton. Their shoulders are close enough to touch. Benton is gazing straight out of the picture, and he's smiling. It's a smile I never saw on him twenty years ago, a smile that fills his face, a smile that makes me warm.

He's happy. And as I lean closer to the photo and look from Benton to Ray and back again, and imagine these two friends - partners - setting off alone into the northern wilderness and calling it fun, I think I know why. It's written all over them, even in a slightly smudgy newspaper photo. 

I indulge myself for a while, then sigh, knowing that I'm allowing my own romantic nature to construct a happy ending for Benton, the sweet, sad student I worried about all those years ago. No doubt the truth is a lot less colourful, and he's just glad to have done his duty and to be returning home.

Jon must have crept up behind me on purpose, because I don't realise he's there until his arms slip round my middle and he nuzzles the top of my head. Then he slides his chin down to my shoulder and laughs softly into my ear. 

"I knew you'd like the article," he says. "Aren't those two an absolute treat? It looks as if your square peg has found somewhere he fits, at last."

Right away I'm feeling warm again, and grinning like an idiot. I'd thought I was fantasising, but if Jon, Mr Cynical himself, can see it, there must be something there. I may still be a scientist, but that's evidence enough for me.


End file.
